


A Day for Sammy

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Happy, Kid Fic, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What the hell are you doing, Sam?" Dean’s voice cracks on the word 'Sam,' and he clears his throat.</p><p>Puberty is a <i>bitch.</i></p><p>Sam looks up from his intense concentration on his fork and knife, holding the fork downward into the meat while he cuts it with his right hand, awkward in his movements. “Did you know that this is how people eat in Europe?”</p><p>***</p><p>Wherein Dean treats Sam to a fun, fancy day at a nice hotel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day for Sammy

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt-fill for [Abadoom](http://marksheppard.co.vu/): "Young sam and dean secretly save up money so that one day when their dad is off on a hunt they can stay in a nice hotel. They end up having an insane amount of fun and order room service and pretend they're fancy :)"
> 
> Sorry, I forgot about the room service part.

"What the hell are you doing, Sam?" Dean’s voice cracks on the word  _'Sam,'_  and he clears his throat.

Puberty is a  _bitch_.

Sam looks up from his intense concentration on his fork and knife, holding the fork downward into the meat while he cuts it with his right hand, awkward in his movements. “Did you know that this is how people eat in Europe?”

"I call bullshit," Dean replies. "That doesn’t even make sense." Today his voice is on the higher end, but the bones in his arms ache like a motherfucker. He’s already shot up four inches this year, and he’s dreading what the impending summer is going to do to him.

"No, Dean, it makes  _more_  sense to cut the meat with your dom-domnin- _domninant_  hand and hold the meat down with your non-domninant hand, and then just  _keep eating_  with your non-domninant hand.” Sam stares at the deer steak Bobby cooked up for them for dinner with wonder, continually fiddling with his knife and fork until he gets the  _'European way'_  right.

"That’s not how you eat meat. And that's not how you say 'dominant.'" Dean picks up his fork with his left hand, stabs the steak with it, cuts a chunk off, sets the knife back down, switches the fork over to his right hand, and eats it. 

Then he pauses, narrowing his eyes. Maybe the Eurpoean way  _does_  make sense.

"See?!" Sam asks. 

"Where the hell did you learn all this stuff anyway?" Dean begrudgingly and stealthily attempts Sam’s new way of eating, and can’t get the hang of it, just like chopsticks, which Sam  _still_  teases him about. So Dean gives up, noting to himself that America is fantastic and he doesn’t need to eat any other way.

No matter how much sense it makes.

"My friend Mike taught me. I had dinner with his family last week. They’re from France."

Dean’s heart aches in his chest, and he suddenly loses his appetite.

They’ve been staying with Bobby for six months now while their dad is out doing who-knows-what. Dean only ever likes to stay somewhere three months at a time, because it’s long enough to get comfortable, but short enough that Sam can’t make these close bonds with people, only to be ripped away from them over and over again.

Dean knows it’s going to be bad when Sam begins referring to anyone by name, let alone when he starts having  _dinner_  with someone else’s family. 

Staying somewhere twice as long means hitting the road is twice as rough.

What makes matters worse is that Dean knows they’re about to head out soon. Their dad found a hunt he needs Bobby’s help for, and Bobby won't even let them go into more than three rooms of the house, let alone be okay with having the entire thing to themselves while he’s gone. 

Dean was told by John to un-enroll them in school tomorrow and meet back up at the scrap yard by 0900, come hell or high water.

He takes a deep breath, gulps, and begins his speech the way he always has in the dozens upon dozens of times he’s had to say it in his life, “I’m sorry, Sammy…”

It never gets easier.

***

Dean didn’t get a chance to meet Mike, but Sam must have really liked the guy, because he was moping around for  _weeks_  about it, slumped in the back of the Impala, staring out the window like a sad puppy dog.

Which, admittedly, he kind of looks like, because he hasn’t had a haircut in way too long.

Dean turns his attention back to “Back in Black” blaring on his Walkman and the GQ magazine he swiped from a laundromat in Atlanta.

It’s not like GQ is his thing, but he reads it when he can to keep up to date on what chicks like. 

Dean sees an article titled “Surprise Your Lady with a Day All For Her.”

He chews on his lip while he reads the article, then glances out his peripheral vision at Sam, who is  _literally pouting,_ staring out the window to the fields whizzing by them while John and Bobby bicker about directions. 

The kid  _really_  needs a haircut, Dean notes.

And, he reasons, Sam's  _kinda_  like a chick.

Dean doesn’t know how he’s going to pull it together, but he’s going to cheer Sam up, even if it means taking relationship advice from a shitty magazine and treating Sam like a girl, because he knows that’s exactly the kind of crap the kid loves.

He’s going to have a day all for Sam.

***

It takes a month of going door-to-door offering to do yard work in all the little towns they hit, but Dean finally manages to scrape enough dough together to treat Sam to a day of luxury.

Dean has to wait for John to drop them off at a shitty motel for a few days alone while he “attends to some business,” leaving them with fifty bucks, a loaded .45, and the words, “Watch your asses.”

The set-up is perfect, because this is one of the worst dumps they’ve ever had the misfortune of spending ten minutes in, let alone the three days their father booked them for. 

"Oh, come on!" Sam shouts from the bathroom. 

Dean crosses the room and knocks on the door. “You okay in there?”

"The water is brown, Dean!  _Brown!”_ Then he shrieks, a girlish trill that Dean has to cover his mouth not to laugh at. “And there’s a  _rat_  in here! It just ran over my feet!”

Dean tries to hide his smile while he says behind the door, “Why don’t we get out of here then?”

The door flies open, and out walks his mop-headed little brother, wearing clothes two sizes too big for him– not that Dean is one to talk, given that he wears John’s jacket every day of his life even in the sweltering heat of summer– and replies, “Where are we gonna go, Dean? We’re stuck here.”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno, I was thinking we could stay a night at the Hilton down the street. It has a pool. And a spa. And a restaurant.”

Sam laughs, and walks past Dean to flop onto the bed. “That’s nice to think about, Dean, but I’d rather just read than play pretend today if that’s okay.”

Dean takes a step toward him, hands casually in his pockets. “Oh, it’s not pretend.” 

Sam looks at him suspiciously.

"C’mon," Dean picks up his duffel, gestures with his head for Sam to follow him, and walks toward the door. "Put on your shoes, grab your stuff, let’s go. We got two miles to walk."

Sam doesn’t budge. “This isn’t funny, Dean.”

Dean hasn’t been this happy in a long time. With a shrug, he replies, “Suit yourself, more room in the pool for me,” and opens the door to leave.

"Wait!" Sam calls. "You’re really serious about this?"

"Fuck yes I’m serious. Let’s go! Check-in opens up in twenty minutes!"

Sam, with a grin plastered over his face that Dean hasn’t seen in since they left Bobby’s, puts his shoes on and grabs his bookbag, then runs out the door while Dean holds it open for him, grinning just as wide.

***

"Oh. My.  _God,”_  Sam says, dropping his book bag to the floor of their Hilton suite, overlooking Knoxville. He runs over to the window and wrenches the curtain open, then presses his face against the glass and looks down at the city below. “This is  _so cool!”_

Dean makes a beeline for the master bedroom and tosses his duffel on it, then turns on the TV to check his Pay-Per-View options, crooked smile across his face as he relishes in the fact that he has both privacy and porn at his disposal.

It hadn’t been easy booking this room, and it cost him an extra seventy bucks to bribe the guy into letting them stay here, under age, without a credit card.

When the dude asked how old Dean was, Dean slid a twenty to him while replying, “Twenty-one.”

He took the twenty, but then added, “Gonna need a credit card to put the room under. Hotel policy.” 

Dean sighed and slid him a fifty, and the man smiled, taking it and adding, “But of course we’ll be happy to make an exception for you, Mr. Smith.”

It doesn’t matter how nice the place is, Dean always trusts in the relative apathy of hotel staff.

As much as Dean is eager to delve into “Sluts of the Nile 5,” today is for Sam, so he turns off the TV to go into the living room, where Sam is staring at a bowl of candy on the coffee table like it’s possessed.

"Do you think we’re allowed to eat it?" Sam asks, not looking up from the bowl.

"I’m gonna go with yes."

Sam looks up and stares at him wide-eyed. 

Dean’s chest feels tight as he realizes that this must be what most kids look like on Christmas morning.

"First thing’s first, though," Dean says. He walks over and ruffles Sam’s hair. "Hair cut."

"Come on, Dean!" Sam whines, batting Dean's hand away. "I like it!"

"Yeah, but Dad doesn’t, so it’s gotta go before he notices and shaves your head with a machete after drinking a fifth. C’mon. I made you an appointment with some chick named Amber."

They go down to the lobby, where there’s a big spa adjacent to the hotel. Amber is a young, petite stylist with short brown hair, an eyebrow piercing, and a strawberry patch tattooed down her arm.

Of course, Dean’s voice cracks when he introduces himself, and he clears his throat, cursing being fourteen and all the terrible shit that comes with it. 

She just smiles at them, big dimples on each side of her face, and holds out her hand for Sam to take, saying, “Let’s go check out some magazines and pick out a style for you.”

Dean sits in the spinny chair, thumbing through a newer volume of GQ than the tattered one in his duffel, while Amber listens to Sam tell his happy, little-kid stories to her. She laughs at all the right points and asks questions, urging him on.

At one point, she asks where their parents were, but before Dean can answer, Sam replies in one, well-rehearsed breath, “Our mom is dead and our dad is out on business but he’ll be back.” _  
_

Amber frowns, clipping at the frayed ends of Sam’s soft, boyish hair, and says, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

"It’s okay. I have Dean and Dean takes good care of me."

Amber grins and looks over to Dean, then winks at him. 

Dean’s heart leaps into his throat and he blushes bright red.

"You’re lucky to have such a great big brother, huh?" she asks Sam.

"Yeah!" Sam exclaims. "And we’re gonna go to the pool later!"

***

They spend the entire afternoon at the pool, which has jets and a waterslide and free toys to play with. They swim and splash and each go down the waterslide about a hundred times, before they both get hungry and decide it’s time for dinner.

Dean makes sure Sam puts on the single nice outfit he has, a light blue polo with khakis that only have one hole in them, and combs his new haircut the way Amber suggested.

"You clean up nice."

Sam grins up at him, a couple teeth missing here and there, and Dean stifles the urge to ruffle his hair.

Dean doesn’t have a nice outfit, so he puts on his least-tattered black t-shirt and jeans.

They head downstairs to the French restaurant, where Dean made them reservations. 

Their server approaches their table and smiles down at them. “Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Alex, and I’ll be serving you tonight. Can I get either of you started with some sodas?”

Sam looks at Dean, eyes wide, and asks, “Am I allowed to order a Sprite?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yes, you can order a Sprite.”

He looks back at Alex. “I’ll have a Sprite!”

Alex laughs and asks, “Do you want some cherry syrup in it? That turns it into a Shirley Temple.”

Sam looks at him in disgust. “That sounds girly.”

"That doesn’t mean it’s not delicious."

Sam looks at Dean again for confirmation that it’s okay to order a girly drink if it is, in fact, delicious.

"Don’t look at me," Dean replies. "You order what sounds good."

"Okay," Sam tells Alex, wary. "I’ll try it."

"Excellent choice," he replies, and makes a note on his pad. 

Dean orders a Coke, and Alex leaves to get their drinks. He looks at the menu and realizes he can’t read a word of it, let alone figure out what to order.

Upon seeing Dean’s confusion, Sam, hint of sadness in his voice, says, “We had  _Blanquette de Veau_  at Mike’s house.”

"Was it good?"

"Yeah." He looks down at his menu and frowns. 

"Hey," Dean says, lowering his menu back on the table. "Stop that. You know we’ll end up at Bobby’s again soon, and you’ll be able to see Mike then."

"I know," Sam replies. "I just wish we could be normal."

"There’s no such thing as ‘normal,’ Sam. All we can do is have as much fun as we can with what we’ve got, and I think we did pretty good at that today."

Sam nods. “You’re right.” He looks up from the menu and runs his hand through his hair, messing it up back to the way it always is, and adds with a wan smile, “Thanks, Dean.”

"No problem," Dean replies with a smile in turn, reaching across the table to flatten Sam's hair. 

When Alex returns, they both order the  _Blanquette de Veau_ , which Dean thinks is actually pretty good for something not American.

***

They finally get back to their room, but Dean is too tired for privacy and porn, so he undresses and crashes on his king-size bed with its high-thread count, pristine white linens, passing out with his hand on the remote.

A few hours later, he wakes up to the sound of his door opening, and small feet padding over to him, then a small hand shaking his shoulder. “Dean?” Sam asks in a tiny voice, barely above a whisper.

Dean grunts in reply, not opening his eyes.

"I don’t like sleeping alone."

He still sounds exactly like he did when he was four, waking up from dreams so frightening that Dean swore something was wrong with him, some paranormal thing in his blood that made him have nightmares worse than anyone else.

Dean shifts in the bed, flinging the covers back, and Sammy crawls in under them, curling up into Dean’s chest like he has a million times before, and will likely do a million times more until they’re old enough to not be afraid of the things that go bump in the night.

There isn’t anything to be afraid of tonight, though. The only sounds in the room are the brand new air conditioner and the buzz of the city below them, the soft breathing of his little brother against his chest as all the tension drains from his body now that he feels safe.

Dean begins to doze off, and Sam asks again, “Dean?”

"Hm?"

After a brief pause, Sam says, "Thank you for today."

Dean squeezes him closer and replies, “Any time, Sammy.”


End file.
